That record, you may have guessed, was OK Computer by Radiohead, their undisputed masterpiece and a record that transformed the band from up and coming Britrock hit makers to one of the world's most vital artistic entities.
If you're wondering why I'm bringing up Radiohead in a Father John Misty review, it's because there are parallels to be drawn here. Pure Comedy is Josh Tillman's third record under the Father John Misty moniker, just as OK Computer was Radiohead's third. Like OK Computer, Pure Comedy holds a mirror up to our humanity and asks the tough questions about our place in all of this chaos. Both albums arrived with copious amounts of hype, and both rise above said hype thanks to sheer quality.
Musically, Pure Comedy is somewhat imposing; its near-75 minute run time is mostly downbeat, punctuated with lush orchestration and spacious arrangements, while the occasional odd noise bubbles just under the surface. It's ambitious almost to a fault, but the changes in theme and tone are subtle rather than jarring, and the album's flow is impeccable. While it is no doubt going to be too long for most to stomach in one sitting, the real feat in my mind is just how gripping such a long and relatively quiet album can be.
That's much in part to Pure Comedy's lyrical statement; Tillman's a gifted wordsmith, and turning his pen toward society and humanity yields some harrowing observations and darkly humourous exchanges. There isn't much about our modern lives that isn't lampooned on Pure Comedy, from our obsessions with celebrity and technology to our religious beliefs. It's an often scathing reflection, and it could all come off as holier-than-thou hipster posturing if not for the fact that Tillman saves some of his harshest indictments for himself, as he does on Leaving LA, the album's 13-minute centerpiece. Over the course of this opus, he sees the cynical backlash coming, and throws himself in front of it, as if to admit that he knows what he's creating might actually be a little too big and preposterous. It is, of course, but it's also emotionally stirring and leads into the most humanizing section of the album, culminating with the relatively simple and heartfelt love song Smoochie.
Surely, this won't be everyone's idea of greatness; it's not the album you reach for on your summer road trip, and there are no treadmill jams or feel-good radio anthems to be found. It's a provocative and pained album that is best served with good headphones and a contemplative head space, the album you reach for on your late night soul searching trip. It's very heavy in terms of scope and substance, a rich and vulnerable record that prefers to deal in Big Questions; it's a thoughtful, unabridged essay among a sea of headlines and click bait.
When I posted up my twenty-year anniversary review of Soundgarden's Superunknown, which I gave a 10/10, I explained my belief that a perfect album doesn't exist; that "even the most heavily lauded, universally adored albums can't possibly be considered as truly flawless:". I still believe that, and if I were to do a review on OK Computer today, it would get a 10/10 as well. When I commemorated its 15th anniversary (here, if you want to revisit it), I opined that it may very well be "the last classic album". Twenty years later, I'm happy to report that I've been proven wrong.
April 7, 2017 • Sub Pop
Highlights Pure Comedy • Total Entertainment Forever • Leaving LA
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